His name was Harlan. William Harlan. They found eight dollars, a Utah driver's license, and a handful of bullets when they turned out his pockets. Sam got the salt, Dean collected scrub for a fire. The body took a long time to burn, hissed and crackled accusations to the dusk. Sam tried to stay upwind. Dean methodically disassembled the man's rifle. Took a walk and scattered the pieces.

Dean drives, dusty back country roads and cracked pavements and silence, to the next town. The next job. A memorial of sorts.

Sam sighs. Too many miles and not enough road between him and that fire. Restless.

"Don't you think we should talk about it?" He drums his fingers on the door and doesn't breathe.

"No."

"but Dean. Come on. That was -- "

"I did what had to be done. What else is there to say?"

"Well I think there's a goddamn lot to say, Dean. What you did, that was. I mean, it wasn't. I mean. Jesus."

"What did you want me to do, Sam? Invite him over for tea and cake so we could talk about it? It was him or us." And Dean knows he's making a choice. One word is all it takes. He never wonders if he'll regret it.

"Yeah, but he wasn't one of them. He was just doing a job. Just like --"

"Sam." Dean never takes his eyes off the road. Pale lines curve across knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. "Can it."

The car growls on in Sam's ears for hours. Dean has never sounded so much like Dad.

Dean slept lightly, one hand gripping the gun under his pillow. Always alert for trouble, he never dreamed. Sam whimpered, prey to another nightmare. They came every night now. When he screamed, Dean was there, thick fingers brushing through Sam's soft hair. They clung to each other. Comforted each other. But nothing could drive the nightmares away. Each night was a century and when the sun finally rose, they faced the day hollow-eyed and dark.

A night spent in the car leaves Sam twisted and sore. He tries his best to stretch, but can't in the confined space of the back seat. Slowly he hauls his backpack out from the explosion of soda cans and Twinkie wrappers that have consumed the footwells. Kicks open the door. Goes in search of coffee and wi fi.

He's in a small diner across the street from the car when Dean finds him. Wide-eyed and breathless, Dean has a noticeable bulge in his coat pocket. He slides into the booth across from Sam, slams his laptop shut.

"Dude. Come on. I was working."

Dean stares at him, unblinking. "Listen very carefully, Sam. Don't ever wander off like that again. Do you hear me?"

"Sure. Ok. Sorry. But I found us a couple more jobs. We've got to go if we're going to make it to the first by nightfall."

"I mean it. Don't--"

He is interrupted. An impossibly tall man stands at the end of the table, beaming down at them.

"Par'n me. I couldn't help but notice -- you all are John Winchester's boys, aren't you." It's not a question.

Dean glares and Sam is, for once, silent.

"Don't matter none, I know you you are. Dean and Sam. I'm Elliot Stearns. Glad to see you. Real glad." The smile drops off the stranger's face with all the sharpness of a whip crack. "I'm here to pay my respects. Your father was a fine man. Always did what needed doing." He nods at the boys, the smile back and almost blinding. "I'll be seeing you. Soon."

Dean stretched out on the motel bed, leaning against the wall. Eyes closed, he listened to Sam in the shower, trying to wash the smell of smoke from his body. He didn't want to think about it. Instead, Dean picked up a black Sharpie from the table beside the bed. The ink was starting to go--he shook it a few times before uncapping the marker. Pushed up his sleeve to reveal an elaborate design -- all swirls and lines and stylized letters. He traced the pattern, his heartbeat slowing, his breath deepening. Darkened some lines, blurred others, wove in a new name. He thought about these names, these men, and tried very hard not to picture two little boys in a motel room waiting for Dad to come home. Dim-eyed, he put the marker down, checked the pistol under his pillow, and shut off the light.

He doesn't sleep anymore. When Sam cries in his sleep, Dean is there. Thick fingers tangle in his brother's soft hair and with a suddenness that surprises them both, snap Sam's head back hard. Dean's lips and teeth bruise a ring around his throat. His hand fumbles with the waistband of his brother's boxers, pulls them down and off and he's not really sure if Sam's awake or not. Not that it matters. His fingers press inside Sam and Dean can feel him trying very hard not to breathe. But it's too late, much too late, for either of them. Dean tugs on Sam's hips, pulling him up to his knees. Dean breathes deeply and pushes his cock inside his brother. The moonlight through the open window layers them in sharp contrasts. The black hollow of Sam's back, the bleached colorlessness of his neck. The drawing on Dean's arm nearly glows. There is silence, but each thrust speaks, words Dean would never admit to. You owe me, and Look what I've done for you, and I love you. Sam's orgasm strikes Dean like a blow, his brother clenching around him sends Dean reeling. Fingers and toes flexing as he crumbles, comes, and is left weightless and floating like dust.

Sam drove, relentlessy, from one job to another and then on to the next. Days condensed into working and staying alive. Dean was good at that. And if Sam asked for rooms with one bed, Dean never noticed. He moved in a world of silence, of move and countermove. Of constant readiness. He had never been more like Dad.

Sam drives along the endless highway. Dean stares at his arm as he loads his gun.